


The one with the Brindmolian sex-venom

by rivers_bend



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your basic sex-pollen fuck-or-die scenario in which Kirk and Bones are good enough to lend a helping hand or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one with the Brindmolian sex-venom

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by conversations with [](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/profile)[**cathybites**](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/) and [](http://loveflyfree.livejournal.com/profile)[**loveflyfree**](http://loveflyfree.livejournal.com/) and by [this gorgeous piece of (NSFW) art](http://lizardspots.livejournal.com/290397.html) by [](http://lizardspots.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lizardspots.livejournal.com/)**lizardspots**

Hikaru Sulu is absolutely certain that he needs at least eighteen hours rest before it will be even remotely possible for him to have sex again. His dick is chafed raw, his fingers ache, his lips and tongue are numb. He can hardly move.

Pavel Chekov is suffering the opposite problem.

Twenty-one hours ago he had been helping to catalog a box of specimens an away team brought up from Brindmol 2, and he'd been bitten by a small shrew-like creature. Since then, he's been utterly insatiable. He's just fucked himself for the sixth or seventh time with Hikaru's left hand (Hikaru lost track hours ago of how many times each of his body parts have penetrated his boyfriend's body) and now he's rutting up against Hikaru's hip, kissing his neck, whispering needy sounds against Sulu's skin.

"Pavel," Hikaru says, patting Pavel's hip tiredly, "I think you need to go see Dr. McCoy."

"He already told me there's nothing he can do except sedate me, and I can't do that again. Even with the drugs the pain was terrible. The only thing that helps is having you inside me."

"I know." Sulu sighs. "I meant—" He's not sure he can say this, until Pavel reaches for his dick again, wanting—needing—him to get hard, and that is just not possible. "I meant you should go and see him as a friend. A friend who could help you."

Pavel lifts his head, shocked, staring at Hikaru. Still his hips move restlessly, rubbing, rubbing, endlessly rubbing. "You— You want me to ask the doctor to have _sex_ with me?"

"No. I don't _want_ you to." Hikaru doesn't want McCoy or anyone else so much as _looking_ at Pavel, but they'd tried their collection of dildos and Pavel's own fingers, neither of which worked to sooth the terrible ache, and so he doesn't see any other choice. Pavel _needs_ , and as much as it pains him, Hikaru can no longer give. Holding Pavel as tightly as he can, Hikaru says, "Just for a few hours. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It is I who am sorry," Pavel says, tears bright in his eyes. "I am sorry I was not more careful. Sorry I have hurt you."

"I'll be fine. We'll be fine. The effects won't last more than another day." Hikaru doesn't know what Dr. McCoy was basing this assertion on, but he clings to it now.

"I can try to just—"

"No." Hikaru cuts Pavel off. "I have seen the pain it causes you. I don't mind." A white lie under the circumstances is not so bad, surely. "And the captain would not allow McCoy to try to steal your affections from me even if the doctor wanted to."

"Perhaps the captain will not allow him to help me in this way at all."

Hikaru doubts that would be the case, but it gives him an idea. "Maybe they can both help you." In fact, Kirk might be the better one to ask.

Pavel looks at Hikaru carefully and says, "If you think it is best, I will do it. They are both good men." Pavel is no longer tearful, but is rocking faster against Hikaru's hip, and looking pained again.

"I think we must," Hikaru says, kissing Pavel's face.

****~~****

Jim Kirk has been off duty for two hours—long enough to eat, shower, and cajole Bones into putting down the "very important" new regulations from Starfleet to join Kirk in his quarters—when the communicator chimes to announce a person-to-person transmission.

"Kirk," he answers, keeping an arm tight around Bones, who is trying to escape to a more captain-and-CMO-appropriate distance as though the call were on screen.

"Captain? Sulu, here." His pilot's voice is ragged. Desperate sounding. "Can you please come to my quarters? I wouldn't ask, only—"

He doesn't need to finish. Bones has filled Jim in on the situation with Chekov and the Brindmolian creature's venom. "I'll be right there," Jim interrupts.

"Thank you, sir."

Before Jim can ask if he should bring Bones, the transmission is terminated.

"Fifteen hours since I released the boy from sick bay," Bones says, looking at the wall chronometer. "I'm amazed Sulu has lasted as long as he did. Why is he calling you and not me, though?"

"I don't know," Jim says, though he has his suspicions. "But I'll call you if I need you. Stay here."

Bones looks as happy about being given orders as he always does, but he settles back on the sofa.

When Jim gets to Sulu's quarters, the voice that bids him to enter is frantic. Once the door shuts behind him and his eyes adjust to the dimmer room lighting, he can see why. The pilot's bed is a shambles, the covers shoved to the floor and the bottom sheet tugged loose from all but one corner of the mattress, and Chekov is straddling Sulu's chest, holding tight to Sulu's right wrist, fucking himself on his lover's fingers, writhing wildly while Sulu lies limp and utterly exhausted beneath him.

"I can't—I just can't help him anymore," Sulu says, his head flopping to the side to face his captain.

At that moment Chekov twists sharply, his shoulders hunching, and he comes violently, crying out as a single thin jet of fluid shoots past Sulu's face to land in his hair. Jim is amazed the kid isn't reduced to coming dry by this point after what Bones said about Pavel's condition.

Jim is also trying very hard to remember that he is these men's commanding officer and they are asking for his help, not providing him with an incredibly hot, if somewhat disturbing, sex show.

"You must help him, Keptin," Chekov says. "I am hurting him, now. But when I stop, when I am not being filled and—" he waves a hand helplessly as though saying these words in front of Jim is distressing him. "When I stop it is just so painful. I feel as though I will _die_."

Though Jim is still finding it hard to believe the men are asking what he thinks they're asking, he decides not to be coy. Not to enquire if they meant to call the doctor. "You're asking me to take over your duties for a while, Mr. Sulu?" He manages to keep his voice steady, like he's asking if Sulu needs relief at the helm for a bathroom break. Apparently it was the right tone to take, because both men slump with relief.

"Thank you," Chekov says fervently. Sulu just nods once, weakly.

Jim hasn't actually said he'd do it, but he supposes his reputation, not to mention the tent in the front of his trousers, spoke for him. "We should leave the lieutenant to rest," Jim says. "Unless you would rather—" He can't actually bring himself to ask if Sulu wants to watch. He's seen the way the men look at each other, as though the rest of the world doesn't exist—Jim can't imagine they have the same kind of understanding that he has with Bones.

"I'll stay here and rest," Sulu grinds out. "You can— You can take him." He's looking at Chekov as he says it, something in his eyes Jim isn't meant to read.

"He'll need clothes, something to put on so we can get back to my quarters," Jim says gently.

Chekov bends down and kisses Sulu passionately. Something else Jim wasn't meant to see. He turns away to give them some privacy and spots a pile of clothes on a chair in the corner that he recognizes as the loose tunic and pants Sulu wears in the gym. Giving the men another moment, he goes and scoops them up. Before he can decide whether or not it's okay to turn back towards the bed, Chekov is next to him. Lithe, naked, bruised, reeking of sex, plucking the clothes from Jim's fingers.

As Chekov pulls them on, Sulu beckons Jim over to the bed. Jim tries not to look at his crewman's abraded skin, the raw red of his penis, but it's hard not to see. "Would you like me to send Dr. McCoy in?" he asks quietly.

"No." Sulu shakes his head. "I think you will need him. With two of you, he might—"

Jim gets a vivid picture of Chekov down on all fours, Bones buried deep in his ass, his mouth stretched wide around Jim's cock, and he manages, just, to suppress the shudder of _want_ that gives him. "Okay," he says, and nods curtly, as though he's just going to take Chekov down to sick bay for an immunization panel.

"Now," Chekov says from over near the door. "Please. We must hurry."

Jim has had his share and then some of men and women both begging him to fuck them. But still, none of that has prepared him for this. With a last nod at his distressed pilot, Jim pushes past Chekov and palms open the door.

They hurry through the corridors, which are thankfully sparsely populated at this hour, Chekov whimpering quietly, and Jim trying to walk in a way that doesn't call attention to his still-stiff cock. Chekov has always fallen firmly in the look-but-don't-touch category through dint of being a junior officer and out of respect for the relationship he has with Sulu. But he is _definitely_ worth looking at, and as sorry as Jim is for the distress the situation is causing his men—his friends—a part of him (yes, _that_ part) is selfishly glad for this opportunity. That might make him a bad captain, but for god's sake, he's only human.

He's not sure how exactly he is going to be able to explain his justifications to Bones, however.

As soon as they step over the threshold, before the door even slides shut behind them, Chekov launches himself at Jim, arms and legs wrapped around him, sending him staggering sideways into the wall.

"Jim?" Bones says incredulously from the bed, where he's retired with his PADD. "What the hell are you doing?"

Chekov answers for him, between bites and licks to Jim's neck, his hips never slowing in their constant search for friction against Jim's thigh. "I am causing Mr. Sulu to become damaged. The Keptin has offered that you and he will help us."

"Oh, he has, has he?"

Bones has a whole arsenal of disapproving looks, and up to now, Jim would have stated confidently that he'd seen them all. But he's pretty sure this one is new.

"He is a very good Keptin. And you are a very good doctor." This Chekov solemnly declares while simultaneously pulling off his clothes and tugging Jim toward the bed by one elbow.

"I don't know what your definition of 'good' is, kid, but—"

"Please, Doctor. Please!" Chekov is naked now, and plucking at Bones' shirt. "It hurts so _much_. I am sorry."

Bones meets Jim's eyes over the top of Chekov's head and they have one of their silent conversations.

_How could I say no to this?_ Jim asks.

_You could have tried. You're the captain, for god's sake. This is totally inappropriate._

_But Bones, look at him. And you should have seen poor Sulu. Besides._ Look at him _. We're never going to get another opportunity to tap that ass._

_You are incorrigible, and I have no idea why I put up with you._

_Because you love me._

_Whatever. Take your clothes off, we might as well get on with this, then. But this is_ not _going in my report to Starfleet about the effects of Brindmolian Atarax toxin._

Jim never has to be told twice to get naked when sex is on the cards.

Bones, who hasn't had as much time to get used to the idea that they're doing this as Jim, and who is generally slower to disrobe in any case, is still wearing his pants and undershirt when Chekov, seeing Jim naked and hard, bends over the edge of the bed, arms and head in Bones' lap, and begs, "Fuck me, Keptin. Hard. Please. Now."

Jim would have to be made of ice to say no to that.

It probably shouldn't be a turn on that Chekov's ass is smeared with lube and come, mottled with another man's fingerprints, but Jim gave up years ago worrying about what gets him hard, and _god_ it all just makes the kid more wanton, more needy, makes Jim dizzy with how dirty and wrong this is. It's almost too much.

Bones curses, making Jim look up to see that Chekov is mouthing him through his pants.

"Oh, fuck," Jim says and pushes into Chekov's willing body.

His ass is hot, soft, and wet, his hole red and sore-looking stretched around Jim's cock. Sulu and Chekov must have bought lubrication from one of the shops on their last shore leave, because the medical-grade lube Bones dispenses from sick bay would be sticky by now, but Jim slides in without pause.

Chekov sobs and jerks backwards, taking Jim deeper. "Yes. Oh, da, thank you, Keptin."

Bones looks stunned, frozen, one hand on the bed propping him up, the other hovering over Chekov's curls like he's not sure whether to soothe the boy, guide his mouth more firmly over his dick, or pull him off his lap completely. Jim can't help him, is too busy holding on to Chekov's hips, pulling him back to meet his thrusts. Chekov is wild with need and the feeling seems to be catching.

Between Chekov's soft heat, his pleading for harder and more, and the look of lust warring with shocked disapproval on Bones' face, Jim comes embarrassingly quickly. He tries to keep going, but too soon his dick slips out of Chekov's ass.

"More, more," Chekov begs, abandoning Bones' lap so he can crawl onto the bed, ass in the air. "Your fingers, please."

"Clothes off, you're next," Jim says to Bones, stepping forward to sink three fingers into that slippery heat.

While Bones pulls his clothes off, Jim concentrates on Chekov, getting his fourth finger in, twisting, pushing, until Chekov is stretched wide around his knuckles, then curving his fingers down against the kid's prostate, rubbing with his thumb from the outside, making Chekov jerk and shake, scream into the blankets bunched in his fists.

"Jesus," Jim hears from over his shoulder.

"Never let it be said I haven't learned anything from sleeping with a doctor," Jim replies, lifting his chin so Bones can kiss him.

With Chekov falling apart under his hands and Bones tilting his head back, plundering his mouth, blood is starting to pool again in Jim's groin. Chekov shouts and jerks forward, pulling himself off Jim's hand, falling on his side, flushed and panting.

"Water," he gasps, and Bones, ever the doctor, abandons Jim's mouth to get him some.

Jim appreciates the man's tight ass, pale against his darker back and thighs which are lightly tanned from the day Jim insisted they swim on their last trip planet-side. He appreciates even more Bones' cock, heavy between his legs, on the return trip. It's not fully erect yet, but Chekov clearly needs a moment to recover and drink his water, which will give Jim time to suck Bones hard before Chekov is begging to be fucked again. Jim's mouth waters at the thought.

The bed is low enough that Jim can pull Bones between his spread thighs and get his mouth on him without too much bending. Bones groans and grips Jim's hair, but keeps a watchful eye on their charge, even as Jim is cupping his balls and licking the length of his cock.

"Always the doctor," Jim murmurs, but then gets back to his task, teasing, sucking, licking his best friend to full hardness.

Chekov drinks quickly and moves on to complimenting Jim's blow job skills. Flattering as he is, commending Jim's ability to deep throat and his technique "stimulating the doctor's glans," the heavily accented and overly technical commentary is rather distracting. After a minute or two, Jim stops and says, "For god's sake, Bones, fuck him and shut him up already."

"Yes, please." Chekov says, seemingly not offended in the slightest. "This time I would like to be on top, if you don't mind."

"Whatever makes you happy, kid." Bones pushes Jim off the bed, climbing on in his place, settling on his back, legs spread to accommodate Chekov who is still huddled at the bed's foot.

"You are very good to help me," Chekov says, moving with surprising grace, considering what his body has been through in the last twenty-four hours, to straddle Bones' hips and impale himself on Bones' definitely hard dick.

Jim doesn't know where to look. At where Bones is sinking into that gorgeous ass, at Chekov's face, blissed out with the feeling of Bones filling him, at Bones' face, wide-eyed with wonder that this is really happening to him and slack-jawed with sensation. He steps back to get a better view, hand moving to his own mostly hard dick. "If you could see what you look like," he can't help saying, which gets a grunt from Bones and makes Chekov bounce even faster against Bones' thrusts.

The view, the soundtrack, the feel of his hand on his cock is all too much, and Jim starts moaning. Chekov turns to look at him.

"I can take more," he says, words sounding punched out of his lungs with each thrust of Bones' cock. "Both of you at once."

Bones' mouth drops open at the words, and even Jim is struck dumb for a minute before he rips open the drawer of the bedside table and slicks his cock with the lube there.

"He's just a kid, Jim," Bones hisses, grabbing Jim's wrist.

Chekov hears him and is quick to reassure. "Earlier, before we determined that the silicone phallus does not help, I took both my dildos at once. I will be fine, I promise."

"Jesus." At this rate they won't have to find out if Chekov is telling the truth or not because just the picture of the boy spread out, stretched impossibly wide, crying and begging because the toys are not enough, is going to make Jim come before he can do anything.

"You two are trying to kill me," Bones grouses, but he lets go of Jim.

When Jim climbs onto the foot of the bed, Chekov stills his hips and bends forward, resting his head against Bones' chest, his cock-filled ass tilted up like an offering. Jim slaps Bones' calf to get him to move his legs together and then moves up until he's straddling Bones' thighs. When Chekov whines needily, Jim rubs a finger along his rim, stroking where it meets Bones' cock, edging inside.

It's tight, but not impossible. Ignoring the impatient noises the other men are making, Jim concentrates, turning his finger so his knuckle is against Bones' dick, stroking the ridge of muscle pressed against his fingertip. Chekov twists wantonly, keening into Bones' shoulder. Bones rocks his hips in response, allowing Jim to slip a second finger in alongside the first. The thought of getting his dick in there, more than twice again the size of his two fingers, makes him dizzy. Rubbing against Bones' cock in the tight hot sheath of Chekov's body. _God_.

"Now, now, now," Chekov begs, bringing Jim back to the room. Lining up, he pulls his fingers out and pushes in with his dick.

All three of them groan, Chekov's thankful and broken, Bones' deep, turning to a gasp as Jim starts to move, Jim's feeling torn from his chest. It's everything and nothing like he imagined, tighter, hotter, impossibly sexy to look at, but slick enough that he can move, slide almost out then in again, snap his hips, one hand on Chekov's waist, the other on Bones' thigh for balance.

Jim is doing all the work, but he doesn't mind, relishing the sounds the others are making, the way they grab and clutch at each other's arms, rock in time with Jim's thrusts. He thinks he might be able to do this forever.

Bones comes first, jerking hard, his muscles going rigid under Jim's hand, his come making everything slicker, wetter. Jim thrusts harder, shorter, sharper jabs, feeling himself getting closer to the edge.

"Too much, too much," Bones is saying, dick oversensitive now he's come. But Jim can't stop, can't wait long enough for Bones to pull out, keeps fucking, jerking Chekov's hips back so his ass slaps over and over against Jim's thighs until the boy's shouts of "da, da, da," send Jim over too. Somehow he manages to collapse sideways so that Bones only has to try and breathe under the weight of one fucked-out man, not two.

This time they are all in need of water, but, under the influence of the venom, Chekov recovers first, stumbling across the room, murmuring instructions at the replicator. He even thinks to ask for straws.

Bones and Jim have only managed half their glasses by the time Chekov is writhing again between them.

"How the hell did Sulu last as long as he did?" Bones mutters to Jim as Chekov pulls their hands in between his spread thighs.

"I'd do the same for you," Jim answers against Bones' ear as their fingers tangle and sink into Chekov's needy body.

****~~****

According to the chronometer above his bed, Hikaru has only been sleeping—fitfully and with bad dreams—for a little over three hours when the communicator chimes wake him.

"It's Dr. McCoy," comes the voice through the speaker once Hikaru musters enough noise for the computer to acknowledge it as a response. "Pavel is fine now. He's sleeping."

Hikaru wants to weep with relief, but does not wish to embarrass himself in front of the CMO. He cannot speak, not even to express his gratitude, only manages a shuddering sigh.

McCoy obviously hears him though, and continues. "I've brought him to sick bay for observation, cleaned him up, and given him some pain killers. I expect he'll sleep at least another twelve hours.

"You sleep yourself out and then come down and see me. I want to check you over, too. Then you can sit with him until he wakes, if you'd like. The captain has agreed that you are both to be on sick leave until I clear you for duty."

Even though he's being kinder than usual, McCoy sounds just as professional as always and not at all like he just spent the last three hours sexually servicing Hikaru's boyfriend. Hikaru is extremely grateful.

"Thank you," he finally manages. "Seriously. I—well. Thank you."

"It's—alright, Lieutenant. Get some sleep. I'll see you later."

Still beyond exhausted, but no longer worried sick about Pavel, Hikaru drops back to sleep. A last, ridiculous thought flits through his mind before unconsciousness claims him. Was McCoy's slight hesitation because he thought it would be tactless to say, "It's my pleasure?"

_______________________________________________________________________  


When Pavel Chekov was eleven years old, he went to stay with his grandmother for two weeks while his parents were in London. Unlike in the city—where the hover plows sucked up the snow and turned it into water—in the countryside, the council still used old fashioned plows, the kind that rolled along the roads and pushed the snow into great banks. 

A boy named Dmitri lived next door to Pavel's grandmother. He was older than Pavel and much larger, but while Pavel was used to being around older and larger boys, the ones he went to school with were not bullies. He did not know what to do with Dmitri. 

Pavel's grandmother had warned him the day he arrived that he must not play on the snow banks because they were unstable and unsafe. Dmitri was determined to get Pavel to break his grandmother's rule. Finally after three days of taunting and threats and having hard-packed snowballs thrown at his head, Pavel gave in, agreeing to climb the bank nearest his grandmother's drive. Dmitri said he would not bother Pavel anymore if he walked along its crest. 

Pavel struggled to the top of the twenty-foot bank of ice and snow, scraping his wrists where his gloves slid up, and dirtying his pants, but he finally made it to the top and started to walk. The footing was precarious, snow thrown up in jagged lumps, some pieces mushy and others frozen solid, but Pavel was determined, and careful, and he made it nearly to the end. He was just starting to wonder how he was going to get down when a chunk of snow gave way under his foot and he fell towards the road. He tumbled ass over face, wrenching his shoulders as he tried to grab on to protrusions, cutting his forehead and chin, ripping his jacket, and getting bruises everywhere. 

Painful as it was, it was a relief to land on the hard surface of the road, just because it meant he couldn't fall any farther. Dmitri looked on as Pavel cried, twisted with pain and shame, sure his grandmother would never forgive him. She did yell, but she yelled louder and longer at Dmitri. And, after sending Dmitri home in disgrace, she bundled Pavel up and took him inside, put him in a hot bath scented with lavender, washed his cuts and left him to soak. Despite the bath and the love, he was stiff and sore for days, hobbling around favoring pulled muscles and bruises. 

When he was exhausted and sore after running a marathon, he thought, At least it's not as bad as falling off the snow ridge—and again when he got in a bar fight his third year at the academy, and when he fell against the console in a battle and dislocated his shoulder. 

But when he wakes up in sickbay, the Atarax venom finally out of his system, all he can think is, even that horrible snow bank might have been better than this.

His eyes are too heavy to open, but he can feel someone in the room with him, can smell the clinical scent of the ward, hear the soft beeps of medical equipment. "Doctor?" he asks.

"No." 

It's Sulu. His Hikaru, here in sickbay. With an effort, Pavel opens his eyes. 

"It's only me," Hikaru continues. "Would you rather—Would you like me to get the doctor?" He looks very stoic. Pavel does not like that look. 

"This is ridiculous of you to say that. Of course I would not prefer the doctor; it was just that I heard beeping that sounded like a tricorder." 

Hikaru flushes and steps forward, hesitantly putting a hand out as though to touch Pavel's arm or shoulder, but stopping short. Pavel cannot read his face and it hurts more than all the pulled muscles in the world. 

"Are you—" Pavels' breath hitches and he has to try again. "Did you need to be admitted too?"

"No. I'm fine." Hikaru sits, drawing Pavel's attention for the first time to the chair next to his bed, a table beside it littered with two PADDs and three empty mugs. "I just wanted to sit with you. Be here when you woke up." 

The band around Pavel's chest eases slightly, but Hikaru still won't touch him, is sitting with his hands folded tightly in his lap. Pavel edges his own hand closer to the side of the bed, close enough that Hikaru could easily reach up and take it, but Hikaru doesn't. 

"You slept for eighteen hours," he says, instead. "Did it—Are you feeling better?"

Tamping down the crushing feeling of being disgusting and untouchable to the man he loves, trying to focus on his relief that at least Hikaru seems still to care about him in some way, to want to be his friend, Pavel gathers himself to answer. "I—the toxin is gone. I will no longer need you to—will no longer hurt you." He wants to apologize again for that, for everything, but he doesn't trust himself to speak.

"You didn't hurt me," Hikaru says, but Pavel knows it's a lie. "It's you I'm worried about. The human body isn't meant—" He's wringing his hands now, won't even look at Pavel. 

The last of Pavel's control cracks. "Isn't meant to do those disgusting things?" he says, his voice rising. "Isn't meant to almost kill another person with making love? Not meant to be passed around like some I don't even know what until it becomes useless?" Pavel starts weeping then, curling into a ball, though it hurts to do so, facing away from the man he loves more than math, more than his career with Starfleet, more than anything. The man he will never get to kiss again, or hold—who will never again slide his hands up Pavel's thighs, parting them so he can slip between, push inside Pavel's body. 

He expects Hikaru to leave, send Dr. McCoy in to deal with him, but instead Pavel feels the bed sink behind him, feels a familiar hand on his arm. 

"Pavel." A sigh when Pavel remains rigid. "Pavel, what are you talking about?" Hikaru moves closer, one hand in Pavel's hair, the other stroking across his chest, down his ribs, his thigh, trying to get him to relax enough that he can spoon behind him, wrap an arm around Pavel's middle the way he has so many nights before. 

"Nothing you did was disgusting," Hikaru murmurs. "And you didn't almost kill me. Pavel, please."

Pavel cannot resist the man holding him, and uncurls enough that Hikaru can rub his stomach in the same soothing way he does when there is Malavian cake in the mess and Pavel eats too many pieces. 

"And," Hikaru goes on, words hot against Pavel's skin, "you are the least useless person I can imagine." His voice breaks on the last word and Pavel realizes the face pressed against his neck is wet. 

"I'm still good to navigate, if the captain wants me." Pavel would like to link his fingers with Hikaru's like he used to, but he doesn't dare. "But if you do not want me anymore, I will feel useless."

"How could I—" Hikaru shifts back, a hand pulling at Pavel's shoulder. "Pavel. Look at me." He sounds so sad; Pavel must obey. "Pavel, nothing has changed in the way I feel about you. Nothing. I still want to touch you all the time." 

He says this thing, but still his hand is hovering over Pavel's face, not caressing it. There is a saying Pavel knows: Actions speak louder than words.

Through the pain in his chest, Pavel says, "If this is true, then why do you not touch me? Why do you treat me as though I am unclean?"

"Unclean?" Hikaru does touch him then, cups Pavel's cheeks in both hands, runs his thumbs across Pavel's brows. "I am treating you like you're injured. You have bruises everywhere, bruises that I gave you because I wasn't careful enough. And McCoy told me about the side-effects from metabolizing the venom. You were screaming in pain, begging him for drugs."

Pavel remembers that, lying in the captain's bed feeling as though all his joints were unhinged and he'd been rubbed raw with sand, his veins burning like they were filled with acid. He had screamed, suddenly forced to wonder how he could have possibly thought the ache of not being filled was painful. Kirk tried to hold him while McCoy called down to sickbay for his med kit, but that just made the pain worse, so he'd sat there, hovering, saying, "It's okay, you'll be okay," over and over until McCoy finally pressed the hypospray to Pavel's neck and there was blackness. 

"You are afraid of hurting me?" Pavel asks.

Hikaru nods, smoothing a thumb over Pavel's cheekbone.

"You still—" Pavel takes a deep breath. "Still want to kiss me?"

"Yes. God, yes." 

Pavel hooks a hand around Hikaru's neck—realizing as he does that most of the pain is gone; he's just stiff now—and tugs. Hikaru comes easily, pressing his lips to Pavel's almost reverently. 

"I love you," he whispers before pressing a kiss to Pavel's forehead, and then comes back to his lips, kissing more gently this time, smaller touches that trace the shape of Pavel's mouth. 

Weaving fingers through Hikaru's hair, Pavel sighs into the kiss, inviting more, but just then a knock sounds at the door and it swishes open. Dr. McCoy clears his throat, prompting Hikaru to sit up on one elbow, though he leaves a hand to continue tracing where his lips left off. 

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Mr. Chekov," the doctor says, ignoring the way Hikaru's arm slides possessively across Pavel's chest when he steps into the room. "One last scan to make sure you're finished metabolizing the toxin, then I'll send you back to your quarters to finish recuperating under Mr. Sulu's care." 

He doesn't move any closer and Pavel realizes he's waiting for permission to do his job. It is disconcerting—not the doctor Pavel has come to know in his time on the Enterprise, though he cannot imagine what the doctor and the captain must now think of him, so he shouldn't be surprised that Dr. McCoy is not himself. 

Pavel finally says, "Yes, fine, thank you," when Hikaru and the doctor remain frozen. 

"Great, great." McCoy steps forward, tapping at the buttons on his tricorder, moving finally close enough to do his work. 

Or what would be close enough of Hikaru, flustered, hadn't hunched over Pavel, in an instinctive attempt to get between Pavel and the doctor. Then he seems to realize he's in the way and jumps back instead, apologizing, and nearly falling off the bed in his haste. 

"If you'd just sit down for a minute, Mr. Sulu, he'll be all yours." Dr. McCoy frowns slightly, making Pavel wonder what he has done wrong now.

Running a palm over his forehead, McCoy continues, "Anyway. If you'd just lie still for me, Mr. Chekov."

With Hikaru back on his chair, there is room for Pavel to lie flat and give the tricorder easier access. It keeps up its contented humming noises as McCoy scans him, confirming what Pavel himself already knew: that the toxin is gone. That he's fine. 

"No more sign of the toxin's components," Dr. McCoy says, turning off his tricorder before reaching up and turning off the wall monitor too. "Everything checks out. It's 0940. I'll note in my files that you both may return to duty from 0600 tomorrow."

Hikaru thanks him, but Pavel, too tired of this whole situation, only manages a nod. 

"I'll leave you to dress then, Mr. Chekov. You know where we are if you need us." 

It isn't until the door is closed behind McCoy and Hikaru is handing him pants and a shirt to replace his pajamas that Pavel realizes McCoy meant the medical team, that he wasn't making a not-funny joke about Pavel and Hikaru needing him and the captain. 

"I am never volunteering to help the science team again," Pavel says vehemently, jerking his top off and his shirt on. 

They go back to Pavel's quarters, even though they usually stay in Hikaru's so that he can keep an eye on all his plants. "Felton said she'd water them," Hikaru says when Pavel looks at him questioningly. 

Pavel takes it as a good sign that his friend can still read his mind.

Once inside however, Hikaru seems nervous and Pavel has no idea what to say. Then his stomach growls, making him realize that a large part of the sick dread he's feeling could be hunger. He hasn't eaten in more than forty-eight hours. 

"Good point," Hikaru says, finally smiling with his whole face. "A couple of protein bars and whatever nutrients they had you on is no replacement for a real meal." He heads for the food dispenser in the far wall. "What do you want?" 

Pavel does not believe it's possible to make that sort of decision right now. "One of everything," Pavel says. 

Hikaru takes him at his word, covering the desk with food, just laying plates down on top of the scattered papers, pushing PADDs to the back. When there isn't another inch of space available for plates or bowls, they start to eat. 

Toast and eggs, oatmeal with butter and sugar melting on top, steak, caviar, apple turnovers, peach cobbler—they both just dig into whatever looks good in the moment. Before long they're both grinning, saying, "You have to try this," feeding each other bites, using thumbs and fingers to catch drips. 

Once the food hits their bloodstreams, they slow down a little, start sharing reminiscences of great food they'd eaten growing up: Potato soup made with fresh cream, and leeks pulled out of the ground that very morning; fried lake trout caught with a line and hook just in time for lunch; cookie dough snatched daringly from a mixing bowl while a grandmother's back was turned. Finally they run out of stories and capacity, pushing back from the make-shift feast table with twin groans. 

"I was going to shower the smell of sickbay off," Hikaru murmurs, "but maybe a nap first."

"Not in a chair," Pavel admonishes. "There is a perfectly good bed ten feet away. What is it the English gentlemen say in the old stories? 'Let us adjourn.'"

"As long as you don't expect me to smoke a cigar or drink brandy."

They lie side by side for a while, clutching their bellies with both hands. Then Hikaru rests his near hand on the bed between them. Even with his eyes closed, Pavel can feel the warmth of it next to his hip, so he lowers his own hand, threading their fingers together, relishing the way the warmth spreads up his arm into his chest. 

"If I hadn't just eaten a week's worth of food in under an hour, I would kiss you right now," Hikaru says.

Pavel opens his eyes, tilting his head to the side so he can see this man he is so lucky to have. "We maybe should not have tried one of absolutely everything."

"Vulcans kiss with their fingers, you know." Hikaru strokes a thumb over Pavel's knuckles, giving Pavel the smile that's just for him. 

"We will kiss like Vulcans then. Until our stomachs are feeling better. Then I think we will kiss like humans."

"Definitely."

The Vulcan kissing is lovely, but rather too soothing, and the next thing Pavel knows, he's waking up, cheek pressed to a patch of drool on Hikaru's shoulder, bladder full to bursting. He tries to sneak out of bed, let Hikaru sleep, but he can't untangle his fingers from the knot their hands have made. Hikaru murmurs something that Pavel thinks means, "Don’t go," so he murmurs back that he shall return shortly, even as he's prying his hand out of Hikaru's grip. 

Bladder empty and face washed, Pavel is brushing his teeth when Hikaru comes into the bathroom. Naked. With a sleepy-but-hopeful look on his face. There are purple bruises on his hips, smaller ones already yellowing on his ribs, and love bites blossoming all across his chest.

When he sees Pavel looking, Hikaru says, "I've come back from shore leave with worse, and this is nothing compared to even the most straight-forward away mission."

Pavel spits out his toothpaste and swishes his mouth out. "You are not mad?"

"Not even a little." Hikaru brushes a thumb over a particularly large bite near his nipple, blushing faintly. "I like your marks on me. And though I don't like you hurting, it's kind of a turn on knowing these," he touches the bruises on his hips, "match the ones on your ass."

"Oh." Pavel can feel his cheeks heating and keeps his gaze away from the mirror so he doesn't have to see his face turn bright pink, knowing that will only make it worse.

Hikaru reaches out and tugs at the hem of Pavel's shirt. "So I think you should shower with me so we can see where else we have matching bruises," he says.

Pavel thinks he might like that.


End file.
